


dance.

by apostated



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-10 19:04:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18414005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apostated/pseuds/apostated
Summary: To protect herself, to protect her clan, that was her sacred duty.  This dance was as natural to her as breathing.  She kept her weight on the balls of her feet as she dodged, light and swift.  Twice he managed to catch her on the thigh.Four to two.“Knock him on his ass, Boss!” the Iron Bull called from the sidelines, and then that amused grin turned feral.





	dance.

**Author's Note:**

> from a prompt challenge my friend and i are doing on tumblr. hope you enjoy!

Her hand wraps briefly around the well-worn lover’s knot at her wrist, fingers gently grazing the ragged twists and knots as her eyes close.She inhales, once.Twice.Those that have seen her on the battlefield know that this is the calm before the fury of the storm is unleashed.Her weight rests on her left leg, while her right foot barely hovers above the ground directly behind her stave.In a flash, those golden eyes fly open and she kicks up the stave, and the fight begins.

She launches her assault against him immediately, aiming a four-point strike to his midsection.He blocks and she grins, throwing her weight into where their staves crash against each other.He’s momentarily caught off-guard; he’s seen her in battle, he knows what she’s capable of.But watching it and being on the receiving end of those blows, even without her magic, is _completely_ different.For a moment, a sliver of doubt crosses his mind, especially as he remembers her almost-hungry grin when he accepted her challenge to practice.That same predatory grin is on her lips now and he scowls. 

“You’re the one who said no magic, Pavus _,_ ” she reminds him, before ducking under his forward blow and spinning out of the way as if she weighed nothing.He has no blows to her four.The first to ten or the first in the dirt buys the other whichever book they desire from Val Royeaux.Not even ten minutes in, and he wishes he’d just cut his losses and handed her the gold. 

“Yes, and I am beginning to regret that decision.”

“Oh?Is the big bad Altus admitting defeat so soon?” she mocks, spinning on the ball of her foot as he tries to strike at her ribs.His own are smarting from her blows and he’s yet to return the favor.A crowd’s begun to gather. 

_“Never_ ,” he growls and launches a flurry of blows at her, each of which she expertly blocks before resting her stave across her shoulders, dancing through the dirt away from him.This was what she loved, the thrill of the fight, the familiar ache of exhaustion in her muscles.

“Stand _still_ , damn you.”

Nerys simply cocks an eyebrow, though her eyes flash with amusement.She’s too good at this.Her years training as First to her clan meant more practice with combative magic.To protect herself, to protect her clan, that was her sacred duty.This dance was as natural to her as breathing.She kept her weight on the balls of her feet as she dodged, light and swift.Twice he managed to catch her on the thigh.

Four to two. 

“Knock him on his ass, Boss!” the Iron Bull called from the sidelines, and then that amused grin turned feral. 

Her assault was relentless as she lithely jumped back into the fray, spinning her staff in an arc around her body that struck him in the ribs and momentarily stole the breath from him.Even with the way she was holding herself back, there was still enough force behind the strike that it was going to bruise. 

Five to two. 

Another four point strike, two of which he blocks, two of which he doesn’t, but he lands a hit on the base of her spine that sends her hissing. 

Six to three.

“I do believe I’m winning,” she says, pushing a sweaty curl out of her face. 

He just laughs and brings his staff down to meet hers with a thunderous _crack_.He tries to press the advantage he has on her in size and strength, but she simply ducks out of the way, spinning and smacking his backside before she spins again and knocks his feet out from in under him.

“Yield?” she asks, one foot on his chest as she leans on her stave. 

He glowers up at her, that perfectly primped moustache still, somehow, miraculously intact. _He must magic the damn thing into place._

“ _Never_ ,” and one hand is reaching out to swipe her ankle.She topples with a yelp, dropping her stave into the dirt, landing on top of him.For a moment they both grapple, both fighting to pin the other.The crowd is jeering at this point, Bull’s cries of ‘Kick his ass!’ ringing the loudest, before she uses his weight against him and pins him to the dirt with her knees on his chest and her hand at his throat. 

“ _Yield_?” she presses with a grin and Dorian lets loose a string of curses in Tevene that she _must_ get him to teach her.

“Very well, you cheating little vixen, I _yield_.”

She clambers off of him and helps him to his feet as the crowd cheers.She dusts him off and gives him a one-armed hug. 

“I do believe that’s going to _bruise_.”

“It is simply your ego that has suffered, Dorian, not your backside.”

Dorian smacks her on her calf playfully on his way out of the sparring ring, muttering curses the whole while.She makes her way over to the fence and retrieves her water skin, uncorking it and surveying the crowd around her.Many of them offer their praises on the display of her abilities and Dorian’s, but she doesn’t really hear them.Despite the chill in the air, there’s sweat beading down her back.She ties her tunic under her breasts and sweeps her hair off her neck, tying it back with a leather thong she keeps on her wrist.Her muscles ache in that delicious way after a good fight, and she finds she’s wanting more.She wants to practice until she collapses into a deep sleep, until exhaustion claims her body and her mind and she can forget everything.

Forget her clan.Forget her daughter.Forget the atrocities she has seen and the fact that she’s going to die in this gilded cage because to abandon this fight is to abandon her clan for true.She tilts the skin back and takes a long, icy drink, the cold shock of water soothing her parched throat.She’s so lost in the hammering of her own heart and her thoughts that she almost doesn’t hear his near-silent footfalls approach her through the crowd of soldiers chatting and taking up their own arms to spar.

“That was a well-fought match.My congratulations on your victory, vhenan.”

He’s surveying her with a sense of pride and awe and something else that has his pupils blown wide. _Hunger_.One predator to another.She knows that look well.She wears it every time he kisses her.It’s been a long time since anyone’s looked at her like that.

“ _Ma serannas,_ Solas.Care to join me?I could use a challenge.” 

He laughs, deep and throaty, and she feels a heat blossom in her belly.What she wouldn’t give to feel that laugh ghosting over her ear, or on the hollow of her throat, or on her lips…

“ _Ma nuvenin, vhenan_.Without magic, I presume?”

“I wouldn’t want to hurt you,” she smirks.

He climbs over the fence with a grace that seemingly doesn’t fit his unassuming demeanor, taking Dorian’s discarded stave from where he’d stashed it on the weapons rack and rests it across his shoulders.His movements are lazy, slow, the careful air of someone who is in their element. 

This should be fun. 

She crouches into a different stance than the one she used with Dorian.Solas is harder to read, more prone to stealth attacks than flashy moves or brute force.He is as seasoned a warrior as herself, and part of her wonders what manner of things someone who claims to simply adventure to learn more of the Fade has come across. 

She makes the first move, an overhead strike that he manages to parry.It sends a shockwave down her arms and she laughs, high and light.His face is carefully blank as he spins the staff around his body with him, aiming for her hip. 

She doesn’t dodge quick enough.One to nothing.

An uppercut misses its mark as he knocks her staff away.She lands a hit on his shoulder.He catches her on the arm.He’s restraining himself, even more than she had with Dorian.It’s frustrating and exhilarating all at once.She’s lost herself watching him fight before.He’s graceful, elegant.Deadly.It sends a thrill through her as they circle each other, and she wishes he would just let go.She wants to see just what he’s made of.

Nerys rushes in and is blocked.Her breathing is becoming labored, but aside from the furrow in his brow, he’s showing no signs of strain.Two to one.They’re too well-matched.She tries to duck into his space, but in a move she doesn’t see coming, he manages to trap her between his body and his stave, the wood held lightly against her throat. 

“Dread Wolf take you,” she hisses, though there’s amusement coloring her tone.Three to one.She can feel, rather than see, his smug smile before he releases her and she thrusts, trying to take advantage of his open core.Parried.She’s starting to understand Dorian’s frustration.They keep at it, and the crowd that was watching her and Dorian has now tripled in size.She thinks she spies the Commander in the background and Cassandra beside Bull, but there are no catcalls this time. 

No noise permeates the crowd as they watch the two mages circle each other, each trying to find an opening, waiting for one of them to expose their weaknesses.There’s a tension in the air.

Apostate versus apostate.She takes a second to ground herself, feeling the cold, packed earth beneath her toes. _Pitted, from too many fights.Easy to lose your balance_ , she notes, and she side-steps his staff to find more even ground. _Balance,_ Deshanna echoes in her mind. _Find your balance._

And then she lets go.In the ring, he is not her _vhenan_.He is simply an obstacle that must be overcome.He matches her blow for blow, his breathing becoming labored.She lands another hit.Then another.Three to three.But they feel like hollow victories.She gets the sense that he’s toying with her, like a cat plays with a mouse.She missteps, and he pins her against his chest again. 

“Do you wish to yield?” he asks, sounding amused.

“ _Never_ ,” she echoes Dorian, and she reaches and grabs his stave with one arm, momentarily taking him off guard.With a yank and a twist, she slips out from his arms and whacks him on the hip.He laughs, and the sound is so genuine it makes her pulse flutter.And then, suddenly, he’s turned the fight.Not that it took much effort on his part, really.He hovers on the balls of his feet above her, smirking. 

“I do believe this dance is mine.” 


End file.
